Blood and Flames
by Joodiff
Summary: Set mid-ish S4. Boyd is in hospital seriously injured, and Frankie can't help blaming herself. Boyd/Frankie. Rated T for occasional strong language etc. Please do enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

**Blood and Flames**

_By Joodiff, May 2011_.

It's a coldly graphic one, the scene playing itself out behind her closed eyes. A dark, abandoned building, a single flickering fluorescent light. She can feel the chill of the night air as keenly as she had just moments before the memory was cast in blood and fire. The gunshots are deafeningly loud. One, two, three. The first taking Boyd in the right shoulder, twisting him like a puppet, the second just grazing his temple before ringing loudly against metal somewhere beyond him and ricocheting away into the dark; the final shot tearing into his leg, flooring him. Noise. Tyres screeching. Sirens. Shouting. More gunshots. The bitter cold of the night, the searing heat of the flames. Blood that looks black in the eerie mix of fire and fluorescence. Sweat and soot streaking his face as he starts to shudder uncontrollably.

"Frankie…?" Grace's voice, sounding a long, long way away.

Frankie Wharton opens her eyes. The hospital corridor is white, clean and brightly lit, and the sight of it temporarily chases away the blood and flames.

Grace's voice is laced with concern, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Frankie says mechanically, not because it is true, but because it is always the answer expected. Further down the corridor, Spencer is talking to a tall man wearing green surgical scrubs. Spencer's head is lowered slightly, his expression tight, earnest.

"How long has it been now?" Mel asks, glancing up at Grace.

The older woman glances at her watch, "Just over an hour."

"Why aren't they telling us anything?"

"It's too soon," Grace says, but she doesn't sound as if she believes her own words.

Spencer nods at the man he has been speaking to and walks back towards them. His expression is closed, unreadable.

Speaking for all three of them, Grace says, "Spence…?"

"They're still trying to stabilise him," he tells them. His tone is quiet, controlled. Frighteningly so. "Archer's dead. They tried to keep the bastard alive, but they couldn't."

Frankie has no words. What can she possibly say? That she believes that this is all her fault? That all she can see is Boyd reeling under the impact of the first bullet, a look of total, blank shock on his face? That the fear inside her is so strong it feels as if her chest is being slowly and remorselessly crushed? There is nothing she can say, not to her colleagues, not to anyone. So she stares at the floor and tries to convince herself that she is dreaming, that in a moment she will wake up to find the summer sun streaming in through her bedroom window.

Grace starts to say something, but she is interrupted by a sudden cacophony of sound and movement at the end of the corridor.

Frankie's head snaps up in the same moment as Spencer says, "Fuck…"

She knows even before she sees them that it's the crash team running towards the double doors behind which –

Mel's on her feet, her face suddenly drained of all colour; she's looking wildly at Grace, as if for answers, and she's saying, "Christ, no…"

The world is spinning, and Frankie has to fight hard against the primeval instinct to vomit. Grace is suddenly there, taking hold of her arm, and the contact is enough to pull her back from the precipice, to ground her. The urge to start screaming lessens, but she can still feel the relentless surges of adrenaline racing through her. In an abstract, useless sort of way, she realises she is in shock and that all her reactions are perfectly normal, but the knowledge doesn't help at all.

"What's happening?" Mel demands, her tone raw with panic.

They know what's happening. All of them. Of course they do.

-oOo-

Mel – Amelia Silver – is the pretty one. The one with the blonde hair and the blue eyes, and the innocently bewitching smile. Mel is the one the men turn their heads for. Frankie isn't jealous – it's just the way things are. And Grace, Grace is the elegant one, the one who exudes a fascinating mix of experienced calm and quiet vulnerability. Grace is the one men hold doors open for. And Frankie isn't jealous of that, either. Frankie is the one in scruffy jeans, the one who never seems to find much time to bother with things like hairspray and make-up. Frankie is the one men laugh with, the one they tend to treat as one of the lads. And Frankie's okay with that – she was never a particularly girly girl, even when she was a little child.

Frankie's the one who never once thought there was more to the easy flirting than idle office banter. Frankie's the one who just assumed Peter Boyd flirted so unsubtly with her simply because it amused him to pick on the most unlikely target. And Frankie's the one whose world unexpectedly got turned upside down on a warm, sunny evening by the Thames when a quick drink, friendly after work became something else altogether. And almost more than that first urgent, demanding kiss, she remembers how vastly entertained he was by her total surprise that he was serious, that he was genuinely, powerfully attracted to her.

Mel is the pretty one and Grace is the elegant one, but it's Frankie who owns the heart of the man. The great, good heart that is no longer beating. And that's something that she simply cannot comprehend.

-oOo-

"He's stable," the doctor says, but his tone and expression are both grim. "However, he's still in a critical condition. I'm sorry."

Grace says, "Is there a chance he could go into arrest again?"

"Well, that's highly unlikely, I would say. The cardiac arrest was caused purely by hypovolemia – massive blood loss. All our tests indicate there's nothing physiologically wrong with his heart, no underlying problem."

"Can we see him?" Mel asks.

The doctor shakes his head, "I'm afraid not. He's being moved to the critical care unit overnight, pending surgery."

"Surgery?" Grace says.

"We need to operate on his shoulder. Looking at the x-rays, he's been extremely lucky to avoid any skeletal injury, but there's some tidying up to be done. While we're there we may decide to go ahead and remove the bullet, depending on what we find. The leg wound's not as bad – the bullet punched straight through the muscle. Clear exit wound. No bone damage there, either. He's nowhere near out of the woods, but, as I said, so far he's been very, very lucky."

"Yeah, I don't think he's going to see it quite that way," Spencer says. "Thanks, Doctor."

The doctor nods and walks away, leaving the three of them to evaluate his words.

Frankie moves without thinking, "I'm going to see him."

Spencer moves too, quickly blocking her path, "Come on, Frankie, you heard what the man said."

"Get out of my way, Spence," she snaps, all the raw emotion of the evening starting to come to a head.

He doesn't move, just says, "Take it easy, Frankie…"

And she explodes, railing at him, "Fuck off, Spencer… Just fuck off…"

"Hey," he shouts back at her, "We're all going through this… Don't take it out on me…"

Grace, ever the peacemaker, puts a hand on his arm, "Spence…"

Frankie wheels away from them all, striding down the corridor in tears, with no idea where she's going or what she's going to do when she gets there.

-oOo-

She can picture Boyd running towards her, shouting her name as the flames really start to take hold, and she knows that was the moment when he allowed himself to be utterly compromised. He came for her alone, far ahead of the others, driven by far more than duty, responsibility or comradeship. He came through the flames for her as a lover, not as a colleague, and now he is paying for his impulsiveness. And Frankie hates herself for it.

They have been doing so well, until now; both of them acutely aware of the boundaries that have to be strictly maintained during working hours. He has allowed her no quarter, and she has done him no favours, and they have learned to respect each other even more because of it. Stark in her mind, Frankie can see the look on his face – fear turning to relief as he finally spots her, and relief becoming shock as Archer's first bullet takes him.

"Frankie?"

It is Grace, of course, who has come to find her. Grace who walks up to her and gently takes her arm, leads her to a more private corner and puts motherly arms around her. It is Grace who whispers gentle reassurances into her ear while Frankie finally allows herself to sob without restraint.

"Oh, Frankie," Grace says, a tiny crack in her voice. "That's right, don't be afraid to cry – let it all out."

Frankie despises herself for her weakness. The things she has seen in the course of her career have made her tougher than most, and in any case, she is not naturally a woman who easily goes to pieces. But this is different. This is something far outside her experience. It's a hard fight, but in the end she manages to assert some control, enough to pull back from Grace and apologise with a husky, "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," Grace says quietly. Her expression is one of concern, but there's also something very wise there, something that understands completely. She seems to decide to take the initiative, says gently, "Frankie, none of us can help who we fall in love with."

Frankie is startled. She stares at the older woman for a second, finally manages, "You know about…?"

"I guessed," Grace admits. In explanation, she offers, "I'm a psychologist; I study people. And I've known Boyd a long, long time. Since he was an ambitious young DS, in fact."

Frankie looks at the floor. She still hopes that this is all a bad dream, but she knows it's not. She says, "It's my fault, Grace. I went back to the scene without authorisation and without backup, knowing Archer could be there."

"Frankie – "

"It's my fault," she says stubbornly, and her expression is fierce. "If he dies – "

"He's not going to die," Grace says firmly. "Boyd's as tough as they come. He'll be back on his feet and making everyone's life hell before you know it."

-oOo-

None of them really know what to do. They don't want to leave, but they have been repeatedly told there is no point in them staying. The doctors will only say that Boyd's condition is critical, but stable. None of them are his next of kin, so they remain confined to a limbo of corridors and waiting areas as the hospital traffic ebbs and flows around them. Frankie sits in near-silence. Mel talks a lot. Spencer fetches endless cups of tea and coffee. Grace… well, Grace just does what she does best – she supports everyone else. They hang around outside the critical care unit, ignoring the glares of the staff and recognising the hollow, dead-eyed look of others who also wait in limbo for their friends or relatives.

It's past two in the morning. Spencer and Mel are standing together talking softly, while Grace and Frankie sit in silence on the hard chairs, each lost in their own thoughts. Frankie finds herself asking, "What was he like?"

Grace looks at her, "Sorry?"

"Boyd. You said you knew him right back when he was a DS…?"

"I didn't know him very well," Grace admits. "But, yes. Our paths crossed a few times."

"So, what was he like?"

Grace leans back in her chair, manages a wan smile, "Good-looking. Full of himself. Very fiery. Not afraid of anything or anyone. Just the way you'd expect, I suppose. Didn't have any time for office politics or the party line, didn't play well with others. Very dedicated, very diligent, but a bit like a like a bull in a china shop. He had a lot of humanity and a lot of integrity, though. It was never just a job to him. To be honest, he hasn't changed very much."

Frankie just nods. She doesn't really know how she feels any more. She is drained. Empty. Nothing feels real. She wants to be at home, safe in her little flat. She wants to be lying in her bed, warm and comfortable, securely nestled against Boyd's broad-shouldered, long-limbed body, feeling his warmth, his strength. She wants to open her eyes and realise she has been having a terrible nightmare. She wants to watch him as he sleeps peacefully next to her. This is how this terrible night should be.

"Frankie," Grace says quietly. "I'm going to tell Mel and Spence to get out of here. They can't spend the entire night here and go straight into work in the morning."

"Okay," Frankie says, but she doesn't really care one way or the other.

-oOo-

_Cont._


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

**Blood and Flames**** (continued)**

_By Joodiff, May 2011._

They make it through the night. They doze fitfully for a few minutes here and there, and they talk a little, but they both spend a lot of time staring at nothing. The hospital slowly comes to life around them as the night shift goes off duty and the sun climbs into the morning sky. Doctor and nurses come and go, and eventually Grace finds someone who is able to confirm that Boyd has also made it through the night. It is also Grace who finally manages to gain consent for them to spend at least a few brief minutes in the dark side room where he has been lying all night.

Frankie is frightened, but determined. More than anything, she needs to prove to herself that he's alive, but she is terrified that the sight of him will break her completely. It doesn't. He's deeply unconscious, and he's hooked up to a wide variety of monitoring equipment, but although he's wearing an oxygen mask, he's breathing on his own and the slow rise and fall of his bare chest is reassuringly steady. A large sterile dressing covers his wounded shoulder, and there is a saline drip in his arm. There are traces of dried blood in his hair from the gash on his temple where the second bullet grazed him, and his face is very pale. But he is alive.

Grace hovers by the door, evidently torn between wanting her own reassurance and not wanting to trespass on an intensely private moment. Frankie barely notices. Her attention is all on Boyd and her own conflicting emotions. She reaches out to him, strokes his hair gently, murmurs, "Hey, big guy…"

He doesn't stir, remains lost in his own dreamland. His skin feels unnaturally cool to Frankie, who is so used to his warmth. Awake, he is vibrant, mercurial, full of energy and drive. Unconscious on the hospital bed he looks much older, much more fragile, and it tears at her heart. Boyd is not supposed to be like this. He is a restless soul, one who is unable to stay still for very long, one who is a paradoxical mix of quick-tempered intolerance and infinite patience. He is not ever supposed to be so quiet, so motionless.

Frankie loves him far more than she knows she should. It is not a conscious choice. He has simply slipped under her defences, bringing utter chaos in his wake. Actually falling in love with him has never been part of her plan, but it is far too late for that now, and she is well aware of it.

Gently, Grace says, "Frankie, we have to go. The doctor's here."

-oOo-

Under duress, Frankie goes home to her flat. She showers, puts on clean clothes and dutifully eats a few mouthfuls with Grace standing over her. It hurts to see one of Boyd's expensive, immaculately tailored jackets still on the back of a chair. If Graces notices its presence, she says nothing, but Frankie can't look at anything else. It seems so long ago that he put it there before they sat down to eat together, yet it can't have been much more than thirty-six hours. So much seems to have changed.

Frankie always complains that he is far too big for her little flat, and Boyd always laughs at her and deliberately sprawls himself out even further. But the dripping tap in the bathroom that has driven her demented for years no longer drips, and the bookshelves she has always promised herself that she will one day get round to building are now securely up and full of papers and journals. It amuses him, sometimes, to play at domesticity, simply because he is so fundamentally undomesticated. Of course, these things have not been achieved without much swearing and loss of temper, but he has done them on his own initiative, and that's what touches Frankie.

She says, "We thought it was better to keep it quiet."

It only takes Grace a moment to catch up with Frankie's thoughts. She says, "I can understand that."

"It wasn't about trying to deceive you all."

"Frankie, you don't have to explain your personal life to anyone."

"He's our boss," Frankie says simply.

Grace shakes her head, "You and I work for the Home Office, we're not police officers. Yes, we report to him operationally, but we're not bound by the same rules and regulations – written or unwritten – as Mel and Spence. You haven't done anything wrong."

"There will be an inquiry, though, won't there?"

Grace shrugs, says, "There always is when a police officer is injured in the line of duty, you know that. I expect Boyd will get his knuckles rapped for being reckless, that's all – and you know as well as I do that's water off a duck's back."

Frankie nods slightly. She stares at Boyd's jacket, lost in memories.

Grace says, "You really can't blame yourself, Frankie. He would have done exactly the same thing for any of us, and you know it."

"You didn't see the look on his face," Frankie tells her.

-oOo-

"Doctor Wharton," Grace says, putting the tiniest of stresses on the title, "is Mr Boyd's partner. She has every right to know how he is."

They are face-to-face with a very junior doctor who looks as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world at that particular moment. Plainly, he does not know how to deal with Grace Foley's particular brand of polite, implacable insistence. Visibly flustered, he manages, "The surgery went well…"

"Yes, you've told us that," Grace says.

He capitulates, promises to find someone who can assist them, who can actually answer their questions properly. It takes a while, but he returns eventually with an older man who is brusque, but informed. He tells them, "Mr Boyd is doing well. The surgeon has removed the bullet and it's been passed to DI Heath, as requested. When he comes out of recovery he'll be moved to a surgical ward for post-operative care – there's no reason for him to remain in the critical care unit."

Frankie barely hears whatever else it is he's saying. The sense of relief is simply too great, but that, too, brings its own sting in the tail as she starts to realise just how exhausted she is. She looks at Grace and begins to appreciate how much support she has quietly received through all the long, dark hours. She wonders if she can ever begin to repay such kindness, such compassion.

Grace is smiling as she says, "Frankie, call the unit, let them know the good news."

"Can't you…?"

"No," Grace says, and Frankie immediately suspects it is a tough-love approach. "You call them."

Frankie does, and she's amazed at how much better the simple act makes her feel – as if passing the news on helps it to become more real. There is relief from her colleagues; relief, friendship and even humour. A great weight has been lifted from them all. She promises she will keep them updated, and she means it.

-oOo-

For Boyd himself, things are much simpler. He's heavily medicated and although nothing makes very much sense to him, he's too drowsy to care very much. He doesn't remember his dreams, he simply drifts between states of consciousness. Sometimes he thinks there are people around him, sometimes not. He doesn't really know that as the side effects of the general anaesthetic start to wear off he is becoming more alert. Not until a dull ache starts in his shoulder and his leg. Not until the dull ache starts to become a biting pain that makes him more and more restless.

He thinks he hears his given name being called, and that's a bit confusing because the voice sounds a lot like Frankie, and Frankie has never once used his first name, even in the most intimate moments. It has become a standing joke between them, one that entertains them both. He's not quite up to logical deduction, but he can work that one out – Frankie never calls him Peter, so it cannot be Frankie talking to him.

"Peter…?"

It is Frankie's voice. There's no doubt about it.

Boyd opens his eyes, and groans against the light as pain lances through his head. Everything seems to hurt – really hurt, and he doesn't know why. Faces loom over him, blurred at first, but coming more into focus as he blinks hard against the intrusive light. It's definitely Frankie, and that's good, because if Frankie is there she can explain what the hell's going on. And that's definitely Grace next to her, and they're both looking pale and exhausted and he doesn't understand why. Has he fallen asleep at his desk? No, the room is far too bright and white to be his gloomy office.

He tries to clear his throat, and that hurts a lot, too. And he really can't understand why on earth both women appear to have tears in their eyes. It's all very strange, very surreal. He tries to move, but is immediately poleaxed by the most intense agony he thinks he's ever felt in his entire life. It makes him nauseous, makes his head spin, and then everything goes dark again.

-oOo-

The world filters back gradually. The pain seems to have subsided, and that's good. The room's still too bright, but he finally recognises that he's in some sort of hospital room. There seem to be a lot of irritating tubes and wires, and what seems to be an oxygen mask. And the mask is really pissing him off. He tries to raise his hand to remove it, but the slightest movement causes a bolt of agony that makes him growl in pain.

Frankie instantly appears in his field of vision, and she says softly, "Hey…"

He tries to speak, finds it impossible to manage more than a hoarse whisper, "Hey, Frankie…"

And that's another standing joke, because she's heard those words wherever she goes for years, everyone thinking they are the very first to crack the joke or sing the lyrics. It never fails to rile her, never fails to make her grit her teeth… _Hey Frankie, do you remember me…_

He's amazed when instead of the caustic, weary comeback he expects, she bends over and kisses his forehead. Lingeringly. And he's even more amazed when he realises that Grace is there on the other side of him and she doesn't look remotely surprised by Frankie's distinctly uncharacteristic reaction. Something very strange is definitely going on.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Grace says, and he's certain there's a tiny, emotional hitch in her voice.

"What…?" Boyd manages, which is neither eloquent nor incisive, but he's doing his best.

"You're in hospital," Grace tells him, which he's managed to work out for himself. "You got yourself shot, Boyd. But we have it on good authority that you're just too stubborn to die."

A flash of memory. Gunshots, very loud in the cavernous space. Flames. Flames…?

"Hurts…" he says, which, again, is not particularly articulate.

"You're on a morphine drip," Frankie tells him, "but you need to try to keep still. You've had surgery."

Surgery? Boyd has no memory of that. He tries to make sense of the confusing patchwork of things he does remember. There was a crime scene, wasn't there? And Frankie wasn't happy about something… Frankie wanted to go back and he said there was no need… But didn't Frankie go anyway? Or is he imagining that? No, he's sure she did. Sure she called him to say she'd found something, and then…

Boyd remembers, quite suddenly, how cold the concrete floor was, and how hot the encroaching flames were. He remembers, vaguely, being in Frankie's arms, remembers her terrified, agonised expression… Remembers her voice, tinged with near-hysteria. Remembers the coppery taste of blood and the stench of petrol.

"Archer," he rasps, and even he doesn't know if it's a statement or a question.

"Dead," Grace tells him. "Self-inflicted gunshot wound."

It's enough. Boyd fades out again, returning to the cosy darkness.

-oOo-

_Cont._


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

**Blood and Flames**** (continued)**

_By Joodiff, May 2011._

When he comes back, the daylight has gone, replaced by the gentler glow of a bedside light. Boyd thanks whichever deity it might be that looks after police officers for the fact that the fluorescent light directly above him is switched off. He turns his head slightly, which proves to be uncomfortable, but not agonising. Still a little confused, he says, "Frankie…?"

It is Grace who appears, and he realises some considerable time must have passed, for she is wearing completely different clothes. She says, "Spence took her home a couple of hours ago. She's exhausted."

For a moment he feels a childish edge of frustration. He wants to see Frankie. But something more mature and less selfish quickly asserts itself and he clears his throat enough to ask, "She okay?"

"She's had a tough couple of days," Grace says, perching herself on the edge of the bed.

Boyd, weary and confused as he still is, recognises the look on her face. Grace has something to say, and she won't be happy until she's said it. He tries to put some strength into his voice, but even to his own ears the words sound like a hoarse whisper, "Tell me…"

"You nearly died, Boyd. Cardiac arrest as they were trying to stabilise you."

He closes his eyes, lets the words sink in. He thinks he might remember sirens, maybe an ambulance, but everything else afterwards is just a confusing blur.

Grace's voice, "She loves you, Boyd. You do realise that? If you don't feel the same way towards her, you have to end it. You can't risk putting her through this again just because it amuses you to have a pretty girl on your arm."

Opening his eyes again, Boyd wonders how he has suddenly become the villain of the piece. He wants to argue, wants to tear into Grace for making assumptions, but he simply has no strength to do so. All he can do is mutter a weak, "It's not… like that…"

Something in Grace seems to soften. She nods slowly, says, "Good."

Boyd goes to sleep. He doesn't realise it until he wakes to find the room empty and the first weak sunlight filtering in through the ugly, utilitarian blinds covering the windows.

-oOo-

The doctor's arrival wakes him up again, and there's not much he can do except submit sullenly to what he is certain is an unnecessary amount of prodding and poking. The nurses come, and he can't do much more than mutter his displeasure as they change his dressings and sit him up. To his relief they finally remove the oxygen mask and put his right arm in a sling to take its weight off his injured shoulder. A junior doctor disconnects the morphine drip, and Boyd is incredibly relieved about that, too. They make him swallow painkillers instead, and it's wonderful to be allowed to drink as much cool water as he likes. By mid-morning he's beginning to feel considerably more human.

By lunchtime he is bored. Still too weak to do anything else, he goes back to sleep in self-defence.

A noise wakes him an indeterminate time later, and when he opens his eyes, it's Frankie he sees.

"Sorry," she says. "I was trying not to disturb you."

She's smiling slightly, uncertainly, but she still looks tired and drawn, intensely fragile, and it stirs every protective instinct he has. The vulnerability under the tough, cheeky façade never fails to trigger that primal response in him. He knows without question that if necessary he'll fight like a lion to protect Frankie, come hell or high water, but he wonders if she knows it. He wonders if she has any idea how he really feels about her, and it shames him when he concludes that the answer is almost certainly not.

"Do you want anything?" Frankie asks him gently.

"Always, Frankie," Boyd says, and he's absurdly pleased to hear some of the strength has returned to his voice.

Something lights in her eyes, a simple sort of joy, and as she steps towards him he realises she's looking like she might be going to cry again. But he decides he can live with that. He's weak and clumsy, and he's effectively one-armed, but he manages a passable attempt at hugging her before deciding that kissing her is actually a lot easier and a lot less painful. And she doesn't seem to mind in the least.

He knows the tender moment won't last. It's not his way, or hers. She pulls back and broadsides him with, "What the hell were you doing? Playing at being Superman, or something?"

"I have a weakness for damsels in distress."

"Fuck off, Boyd. You have a weakness all right – the empty space between your ears. You nearly died."

"So I gather," he says mildly. He loves her fearlessness, her impudence. He loves the way she is singularly unafraid of his irascibility, and completely imperturbable in the face of his temper. And if anyone alive knows that – at least where his colleagues are concerned – his bark is usually far worse than his bite, it's Frankie. He catches hold of her hand, her right in his left, and curls his fingers around hers. "You look like hell, Frankie."

"Thanks," Frankie says. "Don't hold back on the compliments, will you? Remind me again what is it I see in you?"

"Apart from my incomparable charm and rugged good looks, you mean?"

"Yeah, right. In your dreams, Boyd."

He grins at her, and Frankie immediately grins back. And that one tiny moment means everything to them both.

-oOo-

Over the course of the next few days, Frankie naturally falls into a routine that involves working, sleeping and visiting Boyd at the hospital while simultaneously attempting to maintain the ruse that she's no more or less interested in his welfare than anyone else in the team. Having Grace as an ally makes the deception physically easier to maintain, but far harder to live with. Grace covers for her – for them both – but not without a look of quiet reproach in her blue eyes. Grace can see no reason for Frankie not to be completely honest with their colleagues about the true nature of her relationship with Boyd, and though it does not cause direct conflict between them, the unspoken censure weighs heavily on Frankie.

That afternoon, she follows the pattern she has developed. She leaves the lab promptly and heads home, intending to shower, change, grab a quick meal and head for the hospital before the evening embargo on visitors comes into force. But as soon as she steps into her home, she finds that Boyd is waiting for her, lounging at his ease on her sofa. He's dressed in typical off-duty uniform of chinos and light shirt, but Frankie's attention is caught by the characteristically dismal NHS crutches abandoned negligently by the door. She looks at him, knowing he will read her expression perfectly.

He does. The proof is in his deliberately disarming smile. Boyd says, "Being in hospital was driving me crazy."

"So you discharged yourself," Frankie says, and it's a statement, not a question.

"It was that or throw the physiotherapist through the window."

"Don't you mean _out_ of the window?"

"I know what I mean," he says, and he gets carefully to his feet, taking most of his weight on his uninjured leg. With his usually neat beard untrimmed and his hair apparently getting longer by the day, he's looking more leonine than ever, and after seeing him horizontal for so long, Frankie finds herself bizarrely surprised by how tall he is. She's genuinely angry with him for discharging himself, but that dwindles into insignificance compared to her joy and relief at seeing him back where he belongs. She goes to him without hesitation, embracing him not as a friend, not as a colleague, but as a lover. Head pressed against his chest, she can hear the steady beat of his heart, a soothing, reassuring rhythm that she has missed more than she would ever believe possible.

His tone unusually gentle, Boyd says, "You have to let it go now, Frankie. It's over and done with."

She doesn't move her head from his chest, just replies, "You've been talking to Grace."

"She's worried about the way you're blaming yourself, that's all."

Bitterly, she asks, "What else am I supposed to do?"

"Take the official bollocking I'm going to give you about not following protocol and move on," Boyd tells her.

"You make it sound so simple," Frankie says, finally drawing back a little to look up at him.

"That's because it is," he says. "I'm a police officer. The job comes with risks. You either accept that, or you don't."

"I put you in danger – "

Boyd shakes his head, "No, Frankie, I put myself in danger."

"For me."

"I told you, I can't resist a damsel in distress. Grace says I have a nascent hero complex."

Frankie gazes at him, and he stares steadily back, dark eyes utterly unfathomable. She wonders if there will ever come a time when she will be able to accurately read his thoughts. It's doubtful. Most people see only what he wants them to see, and he's very good at hiding behind his towering reputation for being difficult, intolerant and quick-tempered. But there are other sides to him, and it's the times when he allows her to see them that remind Frankie why it's worth continuing to negotiate the dangerous minefield between their personal and professional lives.

"Listen to me," he says, and there's a clear edge of gathering impatience in his voice. "This whole thing is a screwed up mess. I've got a dead murder suspect which means I've got a case I may never be able to close. I've got an inquiry coming into exactly why I was fifteen minutes ahead of the rest of my own unit; I've got some idiot from the Home Office baying for my blood because one of his staff got involved in an operational incident and I've got to go through a full fitness test because some fuckwit doctor wrote 'cardiac arrest' on my notes. And that's quite apart from actually getting shot. Now ask me whether I'd do the same thing again."

Frankie shakes her head, "I don't need to."

"Good," he says, disengaging from her and sitting down again.

"I just…" she starts, not really knowing how to express what she needs to say. She takes a breath, "I just don't want to go through this again. It too painful, seeing someone you… care about… get hurt."

Boyd sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, "It happens, Frankie. I've seen good friends badly hurt, even killed, in the line of duty. You never get used to it and it never stops hurting. But if you can't find a way to live with it, you have to get out. You're not a police officer, you're a scientist, and a damned good one. You could find – "

"I love my job," Frankie says defensively. "All I'm saying is – "

"I'm not discussing this any further," Boyd tells her abruptly. "Learn to live with it. Or don't. Your choice."

Stung by his sudden harshness, she says, "God, you can be a hard-hearted bastard sometimes, Boyd."

"I'm paid to be."

"Not here, you're not," Frankie snaps at him.

"If you don't want me here, just say the word," he says quietly, and his dark eyes take on a flintiness she has seen many, many times.

Frankie closes her own eyes, just for a second. When she opens them, Boyd is still watching her, but he hasn't moved a muscle. She takes the fact that he hasn't – quite – lost his temper as a good omen. Carefully, she says, "Thank you. For coming to find me in the warehouse, I mean."

The flintiness softens, just a little, "You're welcome. Just… try not to put either of us in that position again."

"Truce?" Frankie suggests.

"Truce," Boyd agrees. He tilts his head to one side – an oddly endearing mannerism – and says, "So, Doctor Wharton, now I've discharged myself, are you going to look after me?"

"As if," Frankie says with a snort, but she can feel the charged atmosphere in the room changing rapidly, becoming something else entirely – and she can't suppress a mischievous grin as she willingly steps forward and takes the hand he is holding out to her.

**EPILOGUE**

It is three further weeks before Boyd makes it back to work at the CCU, which is at least a week sooner than the doctors have given him as an earliest possible return-to-work date. Despite continuing physiotherapy he's still walking with a noticeable limp, but since the doctors have assured him there is no permanent damage, he has decided to embrace the unexpected effect his temporary infirmity is having on the women in his life. He hopes that if he plays his cards right, he may be able to avoid doing any of his own household chores for several more days to come. Peter Boyd is not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Frankie, of course, has already completely run out of patience on the domestic front, but that's fine – he far prefers her as a free spirit, and he wouldn't trust her to know one end of an ironing board from another, anyway. Mutilated corpse, yes; neatly pressed shirt, no.

Boyd shuffles into the squad room, fully expecting to be hailed as a returning hero. It's not going to happen, apparently. Everyone seems far too busy. True, there's a brief and surprisingly tight hug from Mel, but Grace just shakes her head in disgust and tells him he's an idiot for defying doctor's orders; Spencer simply nods in greeting and informs him that he's got just two days to write a detailed report on the shooting pending a full investigation. The banality of his return leaves him feeling a little hard-done-by, but a little relieved, too. He limps off to his office and groans to himself when he sees the mountain of paperwork that has accumulated on his desk in his absence. He makes a start by tipping the entire contents of his in-tray into the waste bin, knowing that because it will be automatically shredded overnight, Mel will hastily rescue anything vitally important later. He catches sight of Grace shaking her head at him on the other side of the glass that separates their two offices, and he responds with a look of mock-innocence. She laughs and turns away.

He settles into his chair and the grinding ache in his leg eases a little. He wonders about the aerodynamic qualities of the boldly coloured leaflet regarding the vital importance of Health and Safety in the workplace that someone has thoughtfully left on his desk for him. One day Boyd intends to perfect the perfect paper aeroplane design. The sound of his office door opening makes him look up. He wonders when it was that his junior colleagues decided that knocking was completely unnecessary.

It's Frankie, dressed in a chunky sweater and jeans under her customary white lab coat. A complete contrast to his own expensive suit and handmade shoes. _Vive la différence._

"You're going to love this," she says, holding up a plastic evidence bag that appears to contain a soot-blackened automatic pistol. "James Archer's gun, recovered by the Fire Brigade."

"Ballistics?" Boyd asks, suddenly very alert.

"Striations on the bullet they removed from your shoulder match – no surprise there. Want to hear the really good bit?"

"Preferably today," he says, a little more tetchily than he intends.

"You were right about Archer being the killer. The bullet I took out of the Dalston corpse is a perfect match, too. Add that to the DNA evidence I recovered from the warehouse itself and you've got yourself a closed case."

Boyd's mood improves immeasurably at the news, and he says, "You've made my day, Frankie."

"Think of it as a 'welcome back' present. Buy me lunch?"

"Yeah, just for that I'll buy you lunch," he promises her. "Now go and get on with some work while I decide whether or not to set fire to all this rubbish on my desk."

Frankie mimes a mock salute, turns on her heel and walks back out into the squad room. He watches her for a moment as she stops to speak to Mel and Spence, and when she briefly glances his way, he can't help winking at her. The answering smile is quick, warm and oddly gentle. It has a bad effect on his professional equilibrium. As she finally disappears from view, Boyd shakes his head to himself. There is, he recognises, no fool quite like an old fool, and if the future is never clear, well, at least he's survived to know he can continue to live with that.

-the end-

* * *

><p>("<em>Hey Frankie, do you remember me…" <em>– from "Frankie", Sister Sledge, 1985.)


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